


Coming Home

by bluRaaven



Series: The Price of Freedom [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Blacktyde Chronicles, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1811770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluRaaven/pseuds/bluRaaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ulfric Stormcloak returns from the Great War and both his father and housecarl have to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I recommend reading 'The Bear's Cub' before this story, though it is not necessary.
> 
> This is NOT a happy story. You can find the WARINGS in the AN at the bottom.

_Home is a place not only of strong affections, but of entire unreserve; it is life’s undress rehearsal, its backroom, its dressing room ~Harriet Beecher Stowe_

The Imperial City has fallen.

It is the latest news from the south. It is the only news from the south. The letters reach the Jarl of Windhelm in the middle of the night, but the unique garb of the Imperial courier – now more brown than yellow from being splattered with mud, gains the man entrance to the Palace of Kings and into an audience with the Jarl. Before the first light of dawn spills over the city the Bear watches as torches are lit to the clamouring of bells and cries of ' _Heyra! Heyra! Heyra!'_

The small bright specks of fire spread from the richer districts of the city to the poorer, until Windhelm is lit up as only on the Day of Lights. Today is not for celebration though. The entire city seems to be holding its breath, and its residents gather in clusters around the criers. The Jarl orders his soldiers out to form protective rings around them before they are crushed by the frantic mob.

Men shout in anger and dismay and some women wail, their voices soon lost in the general clamour of 'Have you heard about -?', 'What news of -?', 'What do we do now?' and 'Is the war truly lost?' Sleepy acolytes in rumpled robes open the doors to the temples for anybody who wishes to seek solace in prayer.

Hænir retreats as well, but he does not go out to join the panicked masses at the overcrowded shrines. Instead he sets up the small shrine he keeps, the figurines and symbols of which were carved by his great-great grandfather, in his children's room. He prays for Freydís and the Eighth Legion and for Ulfric and the Fifth and for Ísalind without a Legion, because last he has heard she was stationed in Cheydinhal, using her talent at alchemy to supply healing potions to the warriors. He prays to Talos who must know of their peril and the strife with the elves and to Kyne, the Mother of Men, for surely a mother will watch over her children?

The war is said to be lost after that day, the Imperial Legion scattered and retreating, and a doomsayer prophesies to the outraged screams of his listeners that the days of the Dominion have now come, that the Thalmor will enslave all other races. His body is found on the next day, torn apart, and the guard does not bother to investigate.

They all wait. From the lowest dockworkers and fishermen to the merchants and shopkeepers, the Thanes and the Jarl, everybody longs for news of their loved ones. Rumours are what they get, always changing scraps of reports that are gobbled up for the half-truths they might contain, and that are as fleeting and unreliable as Riften day labourers. From one day to another not even the districts of Windhelm are in accord on what is true.

Almost half a year passes before they learn anything more solid. The guards at the outposts send word when the delegation arrives and Hænir stands on the lookout, watching and waiting as he has done for so long already. Eventually they roll into sight; columns of wagons and the foremost fly the banners of the Bear of Eastmarch. He feels his heart surge in nervous excitement and pushes off the balustrade to greet them and stops abruptly at the stairs when something else catches his eye.

The pace of the wagons and the soldiers flanking them is slow, deliberate almost and white flakes upon an empty field of blue fly second, the flags picked up and torn at by the wind. Mourning colours. Suddenly the Jarl cannot draw breath for the ache in his chest.

On the wagons there are three rectangular lumps hidden beneath cloth of the same colour, roughly man-sized.

Three children.

Three coffins.

 

A curious numb feeling takes hold of him entirely; Hænir's his hands tingle and when the pain strikes, blinding hot amidst the spreading cold, the world tilts and goes black.

 

He wakes up to the familiar sight of his ceiling and the vivid tapestries Líf had ordered made so many years ago in an attempt to make the stone keep a brighter, more inviting place. The Jarl rolls his head, feels a soreness linger in his muscles as if from a cramp and finally his eyes come to rest on Thorsten's slumped figure. His housecarl stirs when his lord wakes and helps him sit up.

Hænir drinks when a cup is handed to him, his mind chasing some elusive memory all the time.

"What happened?" the Jarl rasps.

Thorsten takes the cup and carefully puts it back on the nightstand before answering. Hænir sees that his housecarl has chewed the skin around his nails bloody. "The healers say your heart gave out."

And, just like that, everything comes back.

"You should not get up," Thorsten says softly, but when the Bear struggles out of bed he does not move to restrain him, but to help him get up.

Together they manage to shuffle through the keep and downstairs, and the familiar sights of his home are a blur in the Jarl's eyes. Breathing hurts and walking is agony, but it is nothing compared to the gaping emptiness in his chest where Hænir is convinced his heart has not yet resumed its work. He lets himself be led by his friend and does not understand at first why they stop when they do. Only when he looks up and the haze lifts does he behold the bier and what lies upon it.

The Bear doubles over as if hit in the gut by an invisible fist, one hand clasped over his mouth.

"Out!" he hears Thorsten bark at the soldiers on watch and they hasten to obey the housecarl's orders.

"Freydís and Hamvir," Thorsten gently says as he lays his hand on one lid, head bowed and, more quietly, "And Ísalind."

"What of Ulfric?" the Jarl manages to choke out despite the sudden ringing in his ears. He had known. He had known as soon as he had seen the procession, but... "What about my son?"

"I am sorry. They say he has gone missing."

The Bear sinks down on the nearest bench, vaguely aware of his friend's supporting arm. Other than that they do not speak, each lost in his own grief. He does not know how much time passes as they sit together, whether it is day outside or night. Nothing matters to the Jarl except that here lies what is left of his family. He is the most influential man in Windhelm and yet there is no power that can bring back his children. Hænir had come to terms with his wife's passing long ago because he had something else to keep him going. And now he has... a son reported missing months ago.

His head hits the wall at his back painfully. It would be easy to explain away the tears that spring to his eyes, but in the company of only his best friend he lets them fall freely. Sweet little Ísa who had just wanted to help and Frey, his eldest and heir. She had been such a brave, clever girl. He was no stranger to war and its dangers, but he never really thought that she would not come back. Believed her to be safe with her housecarl, his friend's firstborn. And now they are both gone.

"I was hoping we'd see them marry." The Jarl has to stop and swallow because he cannot bring out another sound and when he finally does it is only half of the sentence. " -was picturing our grandchildren- "

Next to him Thorsten's breathing turns laboured, but his gaze remains fixed towards the front. "They are in Sovngarde."

It is a hollow comfort to those left to linger.

 

The funeral ceremony is splendid and afterwards neither Hænir nor housecarl remember any of it, lost in grief and memories of a better, happier time. Life is slow to return back to its old rhythm for the two men. But both have a duty to perform, the Bear to his hold and people and Thorsten to his sovereign.

 

Thus, a year passes.

 

They have no more accurate news of what is happening on the front. Titus Mede is still negotiating with the Dominion. The Nord and Imperial forces are scattered, one Legion has been annihilated, two more had to be merged into a new one. They are withdrawing ever further, up to Bruma and Skyrim while Decianus is tied down in Hammerfell.

And then, without anything to announce their coming, the riders arrive two months later. The war is over! The Imperial City has been retaken! Both sides are too weak to continue fighting! For the first time there is talk, not of victory or defeat, but of peace.

The outrage when Emperor Titus Mede signs the Whitegold Concordat drives the citizens of Windhelm out of their homes and onto the streets in protest.

The first survivors begin trickle in a short while later and Hænir finds himself more and more often standing atop the battlements, straining his eyes for the blue banners of the Bear of Eastmarch or the blue-white flags that will reveal his son's fate. When they appear on the horizon he is not sure he is prepared to face what he fears is surely coming.

"Galmar!" Throsten bellows in a voice that probably carries halfway to Kynesgrove upon recognizing one of the riders flanking a wagon. The figure rises in its stirrups and waves, and the housecarl laughs and turns to embrace his friend only to stop in the last moment. His expression crumbles slowly, becomes sober again.

"Go," the Bear whispers softly. As much as it hurts, as much as some small, hateful and bitter voice in the back of his head whispers that it should be the Jarl's children returning victorious; he will not begrudge his best friend the joy. He will not ruin it with his envy. Thorsten deserves better than that. Instead he moves to follow his housecarl slowly. Ever since his collapse he has to be careful not to overexert himself.

As the wagons roll on, more and more spectators gather, names are shouted and tears cried and within a short time the streets are full of people frantically searching for family members. A few carriages manage to force their way through the thong and onto palace grounds. The Jarl stands and watches the chaos, wringing his hands, for once overlooked and forgotten.

Further below, out of sight and hearing, Thorsten and his son clash together like two armies. Nobody pays the pair much of a mind and with hundreds of citizens crowding around them they have a strange kind of privacy.

"Rolff is somewhere in the back," Galmar tells his father first once they have found their words again through the joy and tears and Thorsten closes his eyes for a heartbeat to thank all the Gods for bringing his remaining two children back to him.

"What about Ulfric?" he asks, not having forgotten about his friend.

Galmar's expression grows troubled and closes; he looks away. "They got him," he admits silently and Thorsten cannot believe what he hears.

"He's dead?" the man asks, dread coiling in his chest, colder than the bite of an icewraith.

Galmar shakes his head. "No," he says but he sounds tired and defeated. "But he spends his waking hours wishing he was."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for strong language, blood and gore, death, trauma and graphic depictions of every other ugly thing associated with war, the Thalmor and torture.


	2. Chapter 2

Ulfric pulls at a straw when it pokes through the fabric of his pants and twirls it between the fingers of his left hand before tossing it aside. He has ordered the driver to change cloaks with him on the last leg of today's journey and to keep his mouth shut about it. Galmar was riding in front and did not see and nobody else paid the hunched over figure on the box with the hood pulled up against the cold any heed.

For years he had not dared to let his thoughts wander to returning to this place. His childhood home has become a safe haven in the back of his mind, flawless and untouched by the turmoil of war. Eternal and unchanging, it had taunted him with memories of comfort and safety; of the crown glass making colourful lights dance over the stone floor and walls, of plush carpets and furniture and cold nights spent in front of a warm hearth and of welcoming smiles, his father's strong embrace, Frey's bold grin and the smells of delicious foods from the kitchens, and underlying it a burnt tang from one of Ísa's experiments gone wrong.

Ulfric is not sure whether he wants to replace his memories with the reality. He wants it all to be as perfect as he remembers it and knows that things will never be the same.

Suddenly, it had been there, Windhelm, _home_ , and he was not ready for it.

When a curious nose bumps against his elbow Ulfric absent-mindedly picks up another handful of hay and feeds it to the small white pony he had ridden as a boy of six. It has grown fat.

After facing down the enemy forces and their magic he is hiding in the stables because he is afraid to meet his father and the expectations he knows he will let down.

He would have laughed at the sheer ludicrousness if he remembered how.

The warrior's thoughts turn to the Jarl of Windhelm, to the man who is his father. Will he be happy? Or disappointed? Will he even recognize him? Has the news from Cyrodiil already reached Skyrim? And again; what will he say?

He's already made a fool out of himself coming here and even more of one by letting the Bear wait. By tricking Galmar.

He hopes his father will understand. The man he remembers would, but is he the same man still?

Ulfric is, after all, not the lad he used to be when he set out five years ago.

Despite his misgivings he gets up and brushes the straw out of his clothing. He has a duty to fulfil and let it never be said that Ulfric Stormcloak shirks his responsibilities. The doors of the box close behind him with the purring creak of rusty hinges and when he turns around it is to come almost face to face with the Jarl.

Ulfric freezes like a deer, caught by surprise.

What does one say in such a situation?

 _It's been too long?_ They both know that, it is rather unnecessary to point it out.

 _Hello, here I am?_ It is rather painfully obvious, more so the longer neither of them finds suitable words for this reunion.

 _I missed you?_ There are no words to express what is going on in either man's heart, and such a statement pales in the light of the truth. Of their family having been torn asunder.

Ulfric feels the spasm begin in his ruined hand and clenches it, as much as he can, muscles locked tight against any shaking. With the other he makes a vague motion at the pony, just to break the silence. "You've kept him."

He does not know what the tiny crease between the Jarl's brows means but when he hears his own name fall from his father's lips, he replies respectfully with "Father- "

Chin up, eyes front, Legionnaire.

And then Hænir reaches out to touch his son's cheek and the faint rasp of his whisper reaches Ulfric's ears. "My boy. My dear boy."

He finds himself in a tight embrace he has no memory of stepping into and just like a dam bursting he suddenly is hanging on for dear life. He can feel his father's sobs rocking both of them, but there is no shame in the weeping, only joy. With only the horses to witness there is no one to intrude on their intimacy and Ulfric finds the tears that would not come for the past year and half, feels them burn in his eyes tickle as they drip off the tip of his nose and into the Jarl's collar. He is still taller than him.

And Ulfric thinks that maybe he is not dead yet, inside.

They part a long time later, both catching their breath and the Jarl hands his son a handkerchief when he wipes at his face with his sleeve. It gives Hænir time to take survey. Ulfric's face is sunken with dark bruises under his eyes, his nose had been broken and healed crooked and there are two long scars on his left cheek but they look old and faded. Other than that he appears to be... weary, although he manages a tired smile for his father.

"What are you doing here?" the Bear asks his son.

"I needed a moment alone." It doesn't sound too bad put like that and Ulfric feels relief flood through him when his father nods in understanding.

"I guess it must be very strange to be back after so long," the other Nord ventures carefully and begins to lead his son to the keep.

It is. Strange and yet familiar and absolutely overwhelming. Ulfric does what he has learned in the army. He holds up his head and lets everything flow past him. His father does most of the talking and that is fine by him.

"You must be tired. I'll have the servants prepare a bath. And bring clothes."

Ulfric nods and watches the Jarl shuffle away. He moves slowly and with the care of age. When had the Bear of Eastmarch grown old?

Hænir finds out in the next instant they have nothing suitable for his son to wear and Thorsten helps out offering some of Hamvir's old clothes and when his friend is about to refuse he insists. "It is alright. He does not need them anymore."

Ulfric is shown first to a room that he does not recognize and that will be his from now on, then to the baths where he orders the hovering servants to leave him alone. They appear only too glad to do so and he feels a knot of tension unravelling upon their departure. There are towels and a variety of soaps, all of them fancy and not the greyish blocks of lye-and-lard they had in the army.

Steam is rising from a bathtub that is big enough for him to fit inside whole.

_It looks just like the one they used to drown him in._

He cannot bring himself to climb inside. Instead he dips in one towel, very conscious not to lean over the brim. He chooses a soap that doesn't have a flowery scent, but smells of pine and woods and washes with the rag. Ulfric wonders briefly what the servants might make of what he leaves behind, clean water and a wet towel and decides that he doesn't really care. The Nord struggles whilst doing up the buttons of his new shirt trying not to think about Galmar's dead brother.

Hamvir's clothes hang loosely on him whereas he would have filled them out not too long ago. He never regained his weight or form. He never will. One last gift from her.

There is nobody waiting outside to show him back to his quarters. He sits down on the four-poster bed in the middle of the room and stares at the opposite wall, bounces on the feather mattress once. Ulfric knows that sleep, already so elusive and precious, will escape him here.

 

_The burning ache in his muscles intensifies the longer he is held down. He reaches the point where panic overrides all reason and the only instinct is the frantic struggle to reach the surface to draw in just one sweet lungful of air. He thrashes in the iron grip of his captors; he will fight until the world goes black and they force him to throw up all the water and begin anew._

_Ulfric's kick hits flesh and there is a painful grunt and cursing and then -_

" -RO DAH!!"

There is no breath in his aching lungs and no force behind the words despite their meaning but it's just enough to send his attacker flying into the opposite wall. Ulfric's axe is in his hand and he is upon him in an instant.

"Ulfric!!" Galmar bellows and the world comes to a stop. Moonlight filters through the windows and the coals in the hearth give off enough of a glow for him to see his surroundings. A bed, chairs and the crumpled figure of his friend. The axe drops from his limp fingers, its thud muffled by the thick carpet and he staggers back.

"I think I broke something," the housecarl complains and gingerly climbs to his feet to reveal a piece of decorative furniture that had been crushed by him landing atop it. "Heh, no, wasn't me after all."

When he looks up again Ulfric is sitting with his head between his knees and is gulping air like he had just run all the way from Kynesgrove.

Of course it is too much to hope for that the commotion went unnoticed by the other residents of the keep. The doors burst open and Ulfric's father comes running, Thorsten on his heels. "What going on!?"

Galmar moves to intercept them, puts himself between the Jarl and his son like the shield he is sworn to be.

"He had a bad dream is all," the housecarl says reasonably trying to calm his own racing heart and resists the urge to look back when he hears his friend draw in a shuddering breath.

 _A bad dream._ To him those visions are more real than the bed he is sitting on.

"A fucking _bad dream_ , Galmar?" Ulfric snarls when his father and Thorsten are gone and Galmar has lit a candle. His eyes have gone almost black with fury.

"What did you want me to tell them, eh!?" Galmar throws back, still rattled himself. This wasn't the first time Ulfric has almost taken off his head. It's still better than if he woke up the whole palace with his screaming. Strangely enough those nightmares had not begun until after they had left the Legion for good.

"That you're a mental calamity who's one heartbeat from Shouting everything that triggers you to shreds?"

"I'M NOT– ," Ulfric bellows and stops abruptly because he cannot go on. Because he _is_.

"I thought it would get better."

For a long while after that none of them says anything at all until Galmar asks "What were you doing on the floor anyway?"

Ulfric just shakes head.

 

On the next morning he is approached by Thorsten who offers words of comfort and understanding that change nothing at all. Ulfric doubts the other Nord had been in anything resembling the Great War, the Red Ring battle or a Thalmor torture room but he does not say so out of respect for the aging housecarl.

"It wasn't what I thought it would be," is what he says instead.

Breakfast is an uncomfortable affair. Galmar and Thorsten do most of the talking and Ulfric curses every time he drops something. He catches the sight of one of the servants balancing a tray out of the corner of his eyes and his reaction is violent enough to surprise even himself. Nobody gets Shouted at this time, but they all pretend not to see him flinch back or hear the table rattle.

His father approaches him later during a pause and invites Ulfric to sit with him in the study. They haven't talked yet, not really. Now it falls to Hænir to breach a subject he had been putting off, afraid to approach his son. "Ulfric," he begins hesitatingly, not sure how to soften the blow. "Your sisters– "

"I know," Ulfric cuts him short and the Jarl is spared from saying the painful truth out loud. "Where are they?" he enquires more softly.

They visit the temple together and the Jarl watches his son bow his head with grief and does not understand why his only words are ' _I'm sorry_ '.

Ulfric, for his part, does not ask for forgiveness. He cannot forgive himself, he wouldn't ask anybody else to. He has not heard any whispers yet, nor any accusations but maybe that particular tidbit has not yet made it up into the north. Or maybe _they_ are keeping their word.

He has the letters, the single crumpled sheet of parchment he has stolen and the ones given to him but he cannot bring himself to open even a single one. He knows the others' contents by heart. _Contacts_. He loses the fight against nausea and is violently sick. Ulfric wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and spits out the acid.

It burns his throat, raw as his throat had been from screaming.

Another day passes, and one more and Ulfric spends them wandering the halls of his home and feeling useless. There was always something to do in the army. The Legion kept you busy, if nothing else. Pits had to be dug, tents erected, stakes sharpened and water wells fortified. Wood had to be chopped, fires built, grain ground, meals cooked, dishes washed, armour cleaned and clothes repaired. The animals had to be watered and brushed, and tools and wagons mended.

Here, for every task there is somebody already assigned to it. As long as they were on the march there was the road and long stretches of walking were perfect for clearing one's head. When they stopped there were his friends and they would sit around, tell stories or play games. He feels alone. Ulfric has been alone in High Hrothgar but now he misses the camaraderie, the narrow confines of their tent, the noise.

_As the son of a Jarl his chances at rising were decidedly higher than that of the other soldiers. But like any other green recruit he had started out with his Contuberinum, eight Legionnaires they shared a leather tent and a quern and a mule to carry it as well as the other heavy equipment they needed to erect a camp._

_Ulfric, Galmar, Fjori, Gonnar, Istar, Hrolki, Svinn and, Avulstein, the youngest of their group, to whom the task of taking care of their mule had fallen._

_Rikke joined them later, when there were too many empty places and not enough soldiers to fill them. There are other as well. There is Kai whom somebody had given the name Wet-Pommel and Frokmar, Hjornskar Head-smasher and Arrald, Rolff, Thorygg, Kottir, Haddring, Gar, Hran. So many names to remember, so few to return. They cooked together, slept together, marched and fought together._

There have been others, but despite avowing that they will never be forgotten, Ulfric finds it more and more difficult to recall their faces. He remembers their deaths well enough.

He dreams of the ones he holds in his arms as they cough and vomit up blood and tells them over and over again that hush, they will be in Sovngarde soon.

_The dying claw at him and scream out their last breaths writhing in the mud and some sob and ask if he is their loved one and he says that yes, he is, because he cannot bear to tell them otherwise._

_Ulfric_ _sticks his fingers into Haddring's torn neck to stop him from bleeding out and holds vigil over the injured soldier for two days until the medics arrive. Half a day later a fireball explodes in their midst and sprays him with hot shreds of flesh and shards of bone that he spends the next two weeks picking out of his skin. Bits of Hadri and the physician._

_He tries to push Hrolki's guts back as they spill around the man like a grotesque display at the butcher's and he wades through the muck of the battlefield calling out names and praying for an answer._

_Ulfric watches the first love of his life shot from her horse and trampled beneath the enemy charge, the broken shell of her body leaving a trail of blood and shit and organs across the green field._

_He cries, back when he still knows how._

The palace is too big and for a place too empty it is crowded with ghosts.

Soldiers who had been comrades before now salute him awkwardly and call him 'my lord'. After being accepted as court mage by his father Wuunferth has come to convey his gratitude but otherwise the necromancer keeps out of sight. Galmar trains with the soldiers, something Ulfric cannot join in.

Except for his ruined hand there is nothing outwardly wrong with him, but pain in his bones never lets up and after two months of keeping the palace awake with his screaming his father sends riders out for the best physicians. Galmar cannot explain his behaviour away with bad dreams anymore. He is administered an infusion to keep him sedated and it works well enough even if there is no cure for the pain his soul is in.

Ulfric gets drunk first and tosses down the medicine the herbalists give him next and blissfully passes out.


	3. Chapter 3

"Galmar," the Jarl intercepts the housecarl one evening on the other Nord's way from the training grounds. "Walk with me."

"Yes, my Jarl." Galmar follows when the Bear of Eastmarch invites him for a walk. They chat for a while, Hænir asks about how things are at home and Galmar recounts the troubles he and his father are having trying to keep Rolff in check. His brother has developed a fondness for strong drink and bloodshed in the war and Thorsten and he had come to blows a while back; an argument that ended with Rolff unconscious and the housecarl lamenting how he had lost one son already, he did not want to lose another one.

Their route takes them through the small gardens and when they are alone and out of hearing of any other guards Hænir asks the question Galmar felt had been coming all along. "What happened?"

Galmar does not have to enquire what the Jarl means.

"Them sodding elf bastards got him," he answers truthfully, forgetting all about what little court manners he actually possesses. "They tortured him for information. I don't know what they did to him, but... he hasn't been the same since." There is more, so much more and every time he looks at his friend he sees his own shortcomings. The housecarl hangs his head with shame. "I failed him."

"I am sure you did your best," Hænir says with a forgiving pat for the warrior's shoulder that Galmar knows he does not deserve.

His best. What was his best worth if it had not been enough?

"We're going out today," Galmar informs the Jarl. "Just through the city. Maybe it will help." Ulfric has grown restless with boredom inside the palace and his father nods with approval.

 

The trip, small though it is indeed seems to help. Ulfric and Galmar stroll through the white streets, the snow crunching under their boots and the wind whipping their hair into their faces. The housecarl's is downright ruddy and the man at his side has gained some colour too. They visit the market and Ulfric buys a cone of roasted chestnuts for them to share. It only whets their appetite and they stop at the Candlehearth Hall for their evening meal. The innkeeper shows the warriors to the best place, right next to the roaring fireplace upon which the candle stands that has allegedly burned for over a hundred years.

The food is hot and savoury and Ulfric apparently forgets himself and polishes off a full plate without any encouragement from his housecarl. It is on their way back when the two hear angry voices rise. Somewhere, in the midst of the argument the name of Talos falls. Ulfric veers off sharply to the right.

"Ulfric- ," Galmar says wearily but when his plea falls on deaf ears he follows with a sinking heart.

They find Angrenor, an ex-Legionnaire like themselves and a Dunmer woman shouting at each other over the howling of the wind.

"I only ask for a few coppers!" the beggar yells. "Dammit woman, I lost everything in that war! Everything!"

"What for?" she throws back haughtily. "It's not like he is even a _real_ god."

Next to Ulfric Galmar growls and the other Nord looks stunned, like she had hit him with more than just words.

"What do you know about poverty, S'wit?," the elf spits vehemently, obviously tired of the man pestering her for money. "I lost my home, my country, my family. What did you Nords ever do for us?"

"Only gave you an island for free. And a fourth of the city, accommodation and food on loan until such time as you could fend for your own," Ulfric speaks up from behind her. His voice is strangely vacant of emotion and Galmar's mind is racing to find a way to get him away from here as quickly as possible.

The Dunmer woman whips around sharply to face the new arrivals. "Great, more of– " She lifts her hands in exasperation and makes an angry motion, fingers fluttering.

Angrenor jerks back violently and Galmar reaches for his axe before his mind catches up to his hand. Ulfric does neither.

"Thought she'd understand," the beggar mutters quietly afterwards, still in shock, staring at the body crumpled in the forsaken alley, slowly being buried by the whirling snowflakes. "Know how it feels."

 

Ulfric's father is rubbing away a headache when they enter.

"I'm sorry," his son tells him when Hænir does not offer any opening words to make this any easier, just an icy stare. "I did not mean to do it. I thought she was casting."

"It did look like it," Galmar quickly throws in and the Jarl has to visibly restrain himself from asking why they thought anybody would use magic against them in the middle of the city.

"All I can do now is offer her family gild," he says instead, conscious of the fact that he cannot change the past.

Ulfric cringes at the tone of weariness. The day had begun so well, it was the closest he had come to feeling normal since his arrival. He hates to see it end like this, with his father shaking his head and Galmar stiffly standing at attention behind him. And he is terrified of losing control again. Next time it could be one of the men in this room, not just some grubby elf.

 

The incident is covered up and no word gets out on the streets. Neither does Ulfric. He has sealed himself off in his quarters and only comes out when absolutely necessary and when his father calls for him because one of the healers has arrived in answer to the Jarl's plea. He comes willingly then. Maybe if they find what is wrong with him, maybe then he can go back to being like he was before- .

The physician turns out to be an Imperial priest of Arkay by the name of Florentius, a master apothecary and knowledgeable of Restoration magic to boot. Like so many others he had served in the Legion and was now purposelessly wandering the country, plying his trade for what few coins people could spare.

The Bear of Eastmarch has him swear to secrecy first.

"Will you let me have a look at your hand?" The Imperial is cautious to approach Ulfric; somebody must have informed him of the unpredictable reactions he may find himself faced with. He squats down in a non threatening manner and eventually the Nord can make himself reach out.

The healer runs the tips of his fingers over Ulfric's, traces the crooked digits and swollen joints with a feather-light touch that contrasts with his manners and physique. "Can you move them at all?"

Ulfric shakes his head. "No."

"What happened?"

 _She_ happened. And another of them pointy-eared Mer bastards after his release and it's funny how he doesn't remember how it happened, but very much what came afterwards. When for the first time he saw another Nord face that wasn't the terrified grimace of one of the prisoners.

_They have a crossbow pointed at him._

_"I'm with the Fifth!" he cries, disoriented and in shock after the fight that almost cost him his life when he had gotten it back only days ago. "I'm with the Fifth."_

_"Alright, soldier. State your rank."_

_For one heartbeat he stands still in alarm, believing that he has forgotten. Then, "Legio Skyria," he remembers the incantation he had repeated so many times to commit it to memory. "Second Cohort, first Maniple, Centuria Prima. Lieutenant Ulfric Hænirson."_

_The words are meaningless but they tumble from his dry and cracked lips and he watches the soldiers' eyes go wide as their commander shouts at them. They get him to the next outpost along the blue road to Cheydinhal where the field medics had been stationed._

_His wounds heal eventually._

"A shield smashed it," Ulfric replies truthfully enough.

"And who did the rest?" the man wants to know after a more thorough examination.

"The Thalmor," the Jarl replies softly when his son freezes, at a loss for an answer.

_Ulfric does not remember what the Dominion-approved method of hanging a man by hands which are bound behind his back and lighting a fire underneath his feet is called, but he knows the effects well, can barely lift one arm horizontally for having his shoulder dislocated so often, even with healing._

_He does know, however, that if you are head-down the blood will keep you conscious no matter what is done to you._

_Ulfric's body bears few outward scars from his incarceration. "They will never believe you," his tormentor tells him smugly. As if he could bring himself to speak of it at all._

_She is particularly fond of magic and fire and all sorts of crushing devices; cranks and screws and tiny wicked pliers with wedges she would drive under his nails or skin._

_She does not like the sight of blood._

"What is wrong with him?" he hears his father enquire over the rush of blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart.

"He has been healed," the priest replies hesitatingly "But... they did it wrong, twisted the bones in the process. Probably on purpose. Can't imagine what it must feel like," he adds with a sympathetic wince for Ulfric's sake.

"Is there something that can be done?" the Jarl asks.

"Only one thing."

 

"He is dangerous," Thorsten argues with the Jarl when Galmar finds his father. "We don't know what's running through that head of his.

"I'm not leaving!" the housecarl protests, crossing his arms.

"Galmar," there is a tone of command in the Bear's voice. "I don't want him to think you had anything to do with this. It is for the best."

"Galmar! Get. Out." Thorsten turns on his son when he wavers between leaving and though loath to do so, he obeys. It _is_ for the best.

 

It requires eight warriors to hold Ulfric down when the sedative fails to take effect, his body burning though it too fast as the man gets suspicious of what they are about to do, already used to the medicine's effects after weeks of taking it.

When they strap him to the table he loses control of his bladder and then he screams; for Galmar, for mercy and his long dead mother as they break, set and splint his arm, wrist, and every finger on his right hand.

 _Ysmir_. _Kaan_. Scraps of a prayer discarded or forgotten long ago fall from Ulfric's lips. And then he lies still, shivering, eyes glassy and distant.

He does not begin to cry again until they start to heal.

 

Hænir enters the room to find Ulfric curled up with the cover pulled over his head. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed but there is no reaction from his son. Even so the Jarl can feel the tremors that pass through his body, stress, pain and the after-effects of the medicine. They dared not give him more, the physician cautioning that he had had enough already to kill a horse.

He gently tugs at the blankets until he can stroke his son's blond hair and tells him how sorry he is and how everything will be better from now on. The healer says he will regain the full use of his hand.

"Galmar," the Jarl breathes with relief when the warrior enters with a knock.

Upon hearing his housecarl's name Ulfric lifts his head briefly.

"Did they get you too?" he whispers.

Galmar kneels to touch his feverish brow. "Where do you think you are?" he asks because it usually helps his friend find his way back whenever he is trapped in his memories.

There is no recognition in Ulfric's eyes when they snap open again. "I will tell you nothing," he snarls back and with a heavy sigh the housecarl withdraws again.

"It's the medicine," the Jarl says feebly.

_Ulfric does not know what he will do if they begin to work on his best friend and housecarl. He watches the others being executed; the elves have a liking for burning their prisoners alive. That and impaling and he watches his friends scream and shit themselves and reach out to him because he can end it all with a few words. They have that look in their eyes, that they would trade positions with him in an instant, anything to live a few more minutes._

_His captors are growing desperate. Ulfric holds his head high and tells them nothing. When he is alone again he cries himself into sleep, his sobs timed with the screams in his head._

_It's almost better when she starts working on him alone._

_This night, it is Galmar they lead out to the pyre._


	4. Chapter 4

At some point clarity returns. Ulfric wakes to a familiar ache the like he has not felt in over a year and finds out that he has been confined to the bed. Somebody had cleaned him up and gotten him into new clothes. He does not want to think about that for the mortification the realization brings with it. He feels betrayed.  He thought he was safe here. Why did they do it?

Pain crashes over him like a stormy ocean, coming and going in waves and Ulfric tries to time his breathing with the throbbing. When he can, he flees himself into happier memories.

_A bedroll spread out on the dusty ground, a lazy afternoon and sunlight. Svinn is there and she runs her fingers through his thick hair, rubbing his scalp. She talks and he replies now and then with a grunt, not really listening but drowsing lightly. One thing she says makes him listen up._

_"You think I'm handsome?" Ulfric asks and rolls over. He has to shield his face with his arm as he blinks up._

_She pouts in a way mist unbefitting for a warrior. "No. Your nose is too big."_

_And he pulls her down and they laugh; and Ulfric makes plans to introduce her to his father._

 

When he is conscious enough to notice his surroundings he finds Galmar sitting next to his bed, repairing armour.

"Is father angry with me?"

"Why would he be?" Galmar looks up from his work, obviously surprised by the question.

Ulfric sinks back into the pillows, dizzy all of a sudden. "Will you tell him I'm sorry?"

Galmar sighs heavily. "Get some sleep, Ulfric."

 

It is the housecarl who drifts off first and with Galmar's thundering snores coming from the other side of the room Ulfric manages to rest for an hour or two as well.

Sifnar finds the young lord in front of the fireplace in the kitchens with a mostly empty bottle of mead cradled in the crook of his arm. There two more lying at his feet. It is shortly before sunrise.

"My lord?"

He is too drunk to stand on his own and Galmar covers him with a quilt and leaves him to sleep off his intoxication.

 

Ulfric does not return to bed. He takes his place on a seat next to the throne of Ysgramor and observes his father at work. What his sister was prepared for all her life the Jarl now tries to teach him all at once.

Some of it is quite superfluous. Ulfric knows how to lead. He is familiar with the management of larger groups of men, with solving conflicts and issuing orders. He views the city as a military unit, and its people as the soldiers, each fulfilling their tasks. They have a limited amount of resources and he distributes them by priority.

What he really needs is sleep and he doesn't get it unless he passes out drunk. He picks up the bottle more often than is healthy, but Ulfric does not want to listen to his thoughts.

The drink keeps everything around him hazy and, like one of those fragile ticking Breton machines, he functions.

It is expected of him.

 

The bandages and splints come off after six weeks. The healers oversee the process but do not use anymore magic. Instead Ulfric is given potions to drink. These he can stomach.

He is almost afraid of what they will find underneath. His hand is soft and too thin and appears fragile without its protective wrapping. Ulfric tries to move his fingers and they respond sluggishly, but he can bend them; make a fist and open them again.

He begins to train; to pick up things with his right although it is weak, he cannot even carry a full mug without his wrist giving away, but he tries.

Most of all he attempts to keep busy, begging his father for work whenever he runs out of whatever was assigned to him.

 

Ulfric doesn't like writing with his left, it smears the ink, but he cannot hold the feather in his right just yet. At least he can help Hænir fight the paperwork that is piling up on the Jarl's desk. He cannot sleep at night so his progress is swift; it's surprising how easily old lessons come back to him as he sorts through correspondence and forms polite answers devoid of meaning.

It gives him something to occupy his mind with and eventually he learns to read between the lines and gets to know the thoughts of nobility and a few other Jarls. The news of the Whitegold Concordat are spreading discord throughout the holds and many feel as he does, that the Empire has turned its back on them.

Of course, it might never have happened if he had not been the first to betray them. He hates them, almost more than he does himself for caving in. But it pales in comparison to the loathing for the Dominion that he carries in his heart.

One day the orders arrive to destroy all shrines and symbols dedicated to Talos and hand over the worshippers to the Thalmor Justiciars who are provided with immunity and to be allowed into the cities.

Ulfric remembers the tender mercies of the Thamlor Justiciar, can smell his own burnt flesh, the fear of his fellow prisoners.

" _Everything_ we fought for," Galmar growls, almost crushing the bottle of mead in his giant paw. His voice is thick with helpless anger and the sorrow of loss. He is not the only one. The soldiers who fought with them too are furious at the injustice they are being subjugated to and Jarls speak not-so-covertly of rebelling.

The fury overrides all other emotions. For the first time it silences the voices in Ulfric's head.

He opens the pack of papers. _Never again_. The contacts and other instructions he tosses into the hearth for the fire to devour the parchment. The last stolen sheet he smoothes out carefully and fights for a while with the nausea before determination wins out.

_4E 174; 27 th of Second Seed_

_Your Excellency,_

_In consideration of recent events I have found it necessary to initiate a change in our course of action just as we previously discussed._

_I am furthermore proud to announce –_

She did not get any further before being called away and he was released moments after.

Ulfric wonders if this is one last cruel joke.

He refolds the paper carefully, snatches the offending decree from the desk and pins it to the door of the Temple of Talos with his dagger.

People begin to gather in a circle, they ask what is going on. The priests come running and demand an explanation. They get it, and more. Ulfric's voice carries over the ever-growing assembly. He appeals to the veterans amongst them and they recognize him as one of their own. He speaks with passion. His pain becomes his listeners', his outrage theirs. They hang onto his every word, and when Ulfric at last bellows that WE. WILL. NOT. BOW, a roaring cheer goes up.

Ulfric is accompanied to the palace by a crowd hailing him and calling out for justice.

 

The key falls into his hands nigh a week later, as if a gift from the heavens. Igmund, bereft of his throne calls for aid. He has been wronged too, albeit by different things; the uprising of the Reachmen and the murder of his father.

The letter gives Ulfric purpose. The Empire will do nothing to quench the rebellion and help the Jarl to his throne and that is well for this is his chance to forge an alliance and Igmund promises the free worship of Talos in return. He must be desperate. Ulfric cannot undo the past but he can shape the future. He will begin by setting right the mistakes of the Empire.

Hænir watches the fire reignite in his son's eyes. It burns so brightly, he is afraid it might burn him out. But for the first time since Ulfric's return he can see the potential his son carries; catches a glimpse of the man he can become if he breaks free of the trauma he had suffered in war.

Ulfric is so busy of late they had barely had time to talk, but the Bear manages to surprise his son by coming to his private quarters. There is something he has to say. "I'm so proud of you, son."

He may be a man grown but in the father's eyes he will always be his boy. Hænir takes him in his arms when Ulfric grows still with shock and the Bear suddenly regrets never having said so earlier, has never realized how much those words would mean to his son.

"I thought it was obvious," he tries to set things right between them, praying that it is not too late. When did they grow estranged? "You do the right thing. It is one thing to deny the orders of the Empire, but it is another one entirely to renounce a god. For in the end, we will all answer to the Divines only. I just wish you were not off into another war."

"Do not worry, father," Ulfric replies. War is something he knows well. "I will have an army at my back."

"Here, take this with you."

When Ulfric opens his hand it is to find an amulet of Talos, and recognizes it as the work of his great-great grandfather.

There is so much left unsaid between the two of them. Ulfric suddenly regrets that they did not spend more time together. He does not hate his father or Thorsten for what they did to him, is secretly glad they had the strength to force him into healing when his own failed him. He wants to talk now, but there is too much for him to do, to prepare. He owes his father an explanation at least and maybe he can unburden his own soul.

"I will tell you everything when I'm back," Ulfric says. He can see the unanswered questions in his father's eyes, the ones he cannot face just yet. "I promise."

The Bear rests one hand on top of his head. "Just promise me you'll stay safe."

Ulfric realizes with a pang that the other man has to look up at him. He smiles sadly. There is no safe in war.

 

The Jarl houses a party in honour of his son's departure. When the time comes they will say their farewells in private, but what Ulfric needs right now is the support of their most influential families. The Cruel-Seas and Shatter-Shields have been invited as well as the Free-Winters and several others.

The long tables in the main hall are laden with dishes and the benches creak under the weight of the guests. Their talk flows around the man of the hour, barely touching the warrior. He does his best to participate and though he does not say much in the number of words, he chooses them carefully. They are well received.

They toast, to victory and Talos and unity, and opposite him Glamar grins like the savage he is. Neither of them belongs here.

When Torbjorn enquires about the war and his plans for the upcoming battle Ulfric manages to stick strictly to the strategic aspects of it. If he succeeds he will return a hero.

Brunwulf snorts. He has had too much to drink and points a shaking finger at the other noble. "There are no heroes," he slurs. "Just men who did not die. Didn't want to die, eh?", he asks, turning to Ulfric.

Once he might have.

_With his honour tarnished and everything he believed in shattered, he has nothing else to lose. Nine months after his return to the army Ulfric steps out of the immaculate line of soldiers._

_"I volunteer!"_

_"And you are?" the General enquires at his boldness, one painted eyebrow raised._

_"Centurio Ulfric Hænirson. I volunteer for the front lines!"_

_Next to him Galmar turns ashen._

Now, Ulfric wishes for another Red Ring. He wishes to lose himself in the slaughter, to kill them over and over again as they had him. He will now follow the orders a corrupt Empire, will not abandon his god or his people.

"No," Ulfric replies and drinks deeply, savouring the burn in his throat. He has found a purpose. He will bring back the worship Talos if that is the last thing he does. Then, he will throw the Dominion out of Skyrim and the Empire as well.

And he will begin by cleaning up Markarth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Price of Freedom-Series now continues with part 4: The City of Stone
> 
> Also, after everything I've put him through, here is a picture of a happy Ulfric.  
> http://bluraaven.tumblr.com/post/90456172631/ulfric-stormcloak-dragonslayer-he-looks-so  
> Because my soul needed this. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Part 4 still will be quite dark, but not nearly as angsty.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING for strong language, blood and gore, death, trauma and graphic depictions of every other ugly thing associated with war, the Thalmor and torture.


End file.
